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keneth May 20
brush my lips with more reds
make my smile look alive
let the youth touch my hand
allow the colors to dry

bury my casket along with my sins
and the poems i can never sing
get the black book and the priest
let the funeral of an art begin

brew the finest lies you got
the vengeance of the word
a ghost will haunt your dreams
a ghost that bears your name

the sick truth of a man
sought refuge to a face
a better death; to be betrayed
than drown in yellow paint
i tried swallowing ' happy ' not knowing it's what's gonna **** me / art
A Feb 15
How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know

Arles never once treated you with the same beauty as you saw in it
Concern for your wellbeing never came from the people you passed
Not even after they learned that you had taken your last breath
Your memory contained nothing but whispered rumors
They painted the picture of the madman who kept no company
Disregarding the compassion that flowed out of you
Only some knew the truth and what events molded
The trauma that shaped the man who frequented empty fields
Auvers-sur-Oise knew you as a separate man entirely
They stole pieces of you that you did not even have of yourself
Made you their crown jewel, nothing more than a story to keep the town alive
No part of your legacy remained untouched, just as no relationship you’d held stayed pure
Your own doctor claimed your art and in turn your reputation for himself
But how were you to have stopped them
Especially when you were not around to plead for anything different

How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know
caitlin Aug 2018
I ate the yellow paint to make me happy.
I want to smile again
The people around me were worried about my colour lacking face.
So every morning, as the sun rose, I drowned my unsaid words in yellow paint. The colour was brought back to my cheeks, and everyone said that i was glowing.
I started eating the yellow paint day and night, to brighten my dreams. Yellow paint for breakfast lunch and dinner.
No one complained.
Except for my stomach, lungs and heart.
The yellow paint made my outside looks better, but slowly destroyed my inside. You see, yellow paint is poison, no matter how bright.
So it slowly killed me, but everyone said I looked alright.
courtney l p Jun 2018
the story goes
that van gogh would eat yellow paint
in hopes that it would
put happiness inside of him –
probably the same reason
he drank absinthe.

i never understood that level of desperation –
except i painted my fingernails yellow today
in hopes that sunshine
would flow from my fingertips
instead of the torrential downpour
that i’ve made a home out of.

but it only reminds me of van gogh
and new york city
and you –
lots of starry nights

who knew you had the power
to make everything feel so grey in your wake?

if you think about it,
all of us have our own yellow paint –
something we cling to for refuge
even though we know it’s killing us, slowly,
the temporary solace feels worth it
if only for a moment

and you were mine.

- courtney l. p.
the words i never thought
i would have the courage to write
https://courtneylpposts.tumblr.com/
Vera Mar 2018
Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue

When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.

I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of ******* women
and dialogue of broken hearts.

Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.

they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.

I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.

I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.

They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.

Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You

So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?

—V.H.
A dream I had of speaking with Andy Warhol
A Feb 2018
Sometimes people don't want to let go,
Sometimes they beg to stay,
Sometimes they want to be on earth,
Their death makes them sad, but there is no other way,
And no matter where they go, heaven or hell,
Their sorrow follows their souls, even on a bright new day,
And when their sobbing specters arrive at eternity's gate,
Their hearts are still and emptier still,
And with their emptiness they must wait.
Inspired by Vincent Van Gogh's painting of the same name.
Paul Jones Jul 2017
Water fills the cup.     If it is too strong,
its flow will either      break it or bounce back.
14:30 - 08/07/17

State of mind: focused; contemplative.
Perspective: empirical; philosophical.

Thoughts: from observations - of turning the tap on too much, by mistake, and watching the water swill around the concave of the cups base, only to rebound back.

Be patient and gentle and things will gradually sink in.

A metaphor for the mind.

Questions: none.
Dakota Jun 2017
i’m not welcome here
anymore. the ground is
calling calling calling
my name in your voice.
i grab yellow roses-
did you know Van Gogh
ate yellow paint once?
people said it was because
he thought  it would make
him happy, but he was
trying to **** himself.
i pin the flowers to my dress
because i want something
beautiful to die with me.
god knows i’m not.
i’m coming down to get
you, darling. i hope the concrete
hurts. you’re worth it.
Sophia I May 2017
Stars in paint, crackled glaze
walk the cobbled street with me.
ochre, blue and wizened haze,
A swirling canvas galaxy.

Light my broken dawn, my love
darkened hours, quiet night
bring me all the skies above
and drape the dim and pale moonlight.

Sadness, silence, watered cheeks
sunflowers waving in the dirt
charcoal clouded, ever bleek,
dark storms brew like bruises hurt.

Dewy glass and fired ale
absinthe daydream, starry night
touch my arm, porcelain frail
pale skin and paler light.
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